Je ne Regrette Rien
by theviolinplayer
Summary: Reality- it is harsh. But that is life. We must live, and die, with the consequences of the choices we make.


  
Disclaimer: Mozenrath and Xerxes are property of Disney. No copyright infringement is intended. Sue me, and you'll get nothing but a crappy PC, some old socks, and a wheel of gouda cheese.   
  
Rating: PG   
  
Summary:Reality- it is harsh. But that is life. We must live, and die, with the consequences of the choices we make.   
  
_"O fortuna, velut luna statu variabilis, semper crescis aut decrescis; vita detestabilis nunc obdurat et tunc curat ludo mentis aciem; Egestatem, potestatem Dissolvit ut glaciem"   
  
"O Fortune, like the moon you are changeable, ever waxing and waning; hateful life first oppresses and then soothes as fancy takes it; poverty and power, it melts them like ice."   
**Fortuna, Imperatrix Mundi**_   
  
He slowly sank into the worn velvet of the throne. The cold, smooth wood offered little comfort, but he would not be moved. Even as he felt his brittle bones stiffening, the sorceror stayed in his place.   
  
He was dying- he knew that. Years of the gauntlet draining his life, coupled with a strange ailment that no amount of majick or medicine seemed able to heal, had finally taken their toll. He was surprised- he'd lived longer than he'd ever expected, nearly 35 years.   
  
Adjusting his cape about him, Mozenrath tried to make himself a bit more comfortable. Someone else may have moved to a bed, but not he. This was his throne, and he was lord of these lands. No, he'd decided, he would die like this. It only seemed fitting.   
  
Mozenrath sat calmly, waiting for slumber to overtake him, a slumber he did not plan to wake from. He felt his eyelids growing heavy, wanting to shut out the harsh light the moon cast on the obsidian floor of the citadel.   
  
"This is not how it was supposed to end...this is not how things were to be..."   
  
Mozenrath had never conquered his deserts, never attained his power and glory. All those years of pain and anguish, of lonliness and despair, were in vain. And now he lay here dying; cold, tired, and completely alone.   
  
There were tales, he recalled, of those who were on the brink of death, of their own destruction, saved by their true love or some unforseen spirit. Those who seemed like they'd lost all hope found it, those in the deepest pits of despair were led out by a guiding light, with the chance at a new beginning and a new life, like Lazarus rising from the grave.   
  
But there was no miracle here, no sudden presence of some heavenly force to steal him from death's clutches. No loving lady was there to hold his tired body, to smooth the limp hair from his forehead and tell him things would be alright. He had no parents, no children, no friends to come to bid their farewells. He'd made the choice long ago which path to take- he'd chosen the one of power. He wondered now momentarily, how things would have been if he'd gone the other- that of friendship, and love, and humanity. Did it even matter? Would that have changed anything? After a moment, he banished these thoughts from his mind. They would change nothing, would bring no comfort. Even the cold touch of Xerxes would have been welcome, but that was not to be, for the one companion he'd had, the closest to a friend, was dead too.   
  
What was to come, he did not know. Heaven or hell; reincarnation or pure lifelessness; it did not really matter to him. It was too late to think of these things, and he could only wait to be taken.   
  
He laughed a little. How ironic. This is the first time I've given up so easily. But I do not care.   
  
The air seemed to grow thicker in the room, and it became increasingly more difficult to breathe. It was as if an invisible noose were about his neck, tightening slowly, squeezing the last bit of oxygen from his lungs.   
  
A raspy cough escaped from his lips, and he placed one gloved hand to his mouth to muffle it. A small red stain spread across the fingers of the glove, as he lowered his arm to his side, tucking it back into the cape. He shivered slightly in the warm and humid air. It wouldn't be very long, he knew, before his heart would stop entirely, the blood freezing in his veins.   
  
He shifted again, trying to relieve pressure from one of the lumps that had formed near the base of his skull. A dull ache began to rise in his head, and he knew before long that another one of those awful, crippling headaches would rise. Perhaps he should try and get to sleep before they came.   
  
Shutting his eyes and surrounding himself in darkness, Mozenrath sucked in a deep breath, eliciting another cough from his lungs. Another chill ran down his spine, and he wrapped his cloak closer about him, trying to retain the slightest bit of warmth possible.   
  
For a few minutes he sat like this, struggling for every breath he took. It won't be very long now, he though. It was comforting, knowing he would finally be free from this numbing pain, from the frustration that came with his sickness as his mind slowly deteriorated.   
  
If only I could go to sleep...   
  
He opened his eyes again, glancing one last time at the citadel about him. The smooth, cold stone walls, the floors polished to a gleaming shine. Above him, an open window let in the full rays of the shining moon. He squeezed his sensitive eyes shut again, and resettled himself. The pain in his head was increasing, and he ripped off the turban he wore in a vain attempt to relieve the growing pressure. He clutched at the fabric in his hands, the smooth silk damp with sweat.   
  
The muscles in his arms relaxed, as he rested them at his sides again. His head fell back against the soft fabric, as a strange pricking sensation seemed to overcome his limbs. It slowly spread through his legs, up to his torso, and finally his head. The strange sense of euphoria took over, as bright colors assaulted his eyes. He tried to close them tighter, to block out the blinding light, to no avail. A series of ragged gasps escaped from his lungs, as he choked and struggled to draw a breath. No thoughts came to his mind; it was like a black chasm, with no emotion and no memory, only a sense of being.   
  
Then a slight sigh came from the sorceror's mouth, as his stiff shoulders slumped. The hand that had been holding his turban so tightly fell limp to his side, as the material slipped from his fingers and fell into a pile on the floor beneath his throne.   
  
Mozenrath, Lord of the Black Sands, was dead.   
  
  
  
Feedback is greatly appreciated. I accept comments and *constructive* criticism. 


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